


and when we come home in victory

by lilithqueen



Series: be the song everybody wanna sing [3]
Category: Obsidian and Blood - Aliette de Bodard
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, War, just really aggressive pining here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Teomitl is away at war, another long campaign for the glory of the Mexica. He should be thinking of strategies, of the supply train, of his troops. Instead, he spends most of it thinking about Acatl.When he gets back, he tells him.
Relationships: Acatl/Teomitl (Obsidian and Blood)
Series: be the song everybody wanna sing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071134





	and when we come home in victory

**Author's Note:**

> yeah at this point you might've noticed i listen to a lot of disney songs.
> 
> title: [a girl worth fighting for - mulan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RCMM4qwz3U)

_It’s official. I liked war much more when I was just a warrior, and not Tizoc’s Master of the House of Darts._ Teomitl honestly wasn’t sure which was worse—the campaign itself, which this year was mostly over rocky ground that all seemed to have a personal grudge against his sandals (not to mention his men’s ankles; there had been a score of injuries already), or the pre-battle meetings where they went over their strategies. At least the meetings were under a tent so he wasn’t slowly roasting alive in his regalia, but the fact that he had to deal with the entire war council and his incompetent brother made him boil with rage anyway.

“We can meet them in pitched battle here—”

“Not until the Texcocan forces catch up, we can’t.”

“Are you doubting our valor?”

 _That_ was Tizoc, querulous, and Teomitl took a deep breath before he was tempted to jump in with anything stupid. _The valor of our army?_ _No one here would doubt that_ _. Yours in particular? I don’t think you ever had any._

“It’s a simple matter of numbers, my lord—”

“—Not to mention the terrain—”

“I understand you are eager to meet them after what they did to our merchants, my lord, but if we wait but a week, we will be able to push on into their city directly...”

Tizoc was speaking again. Teomitl willed the words to flow over him like water, hearing the shape of them but not dwelling on whatever stupidity was actually coming out of the man’s mouth. It was harder than he expected; there was a _lot_ of stupidity to filter out. Not for the first time, he wondered if Acatl had the same urge to murder Tizoc or the war council every time they spoke. He doubted it. _Acatl is reasonable. Rational. Even-tempered. He doesn’t even want to go against the Revered Speaker who tried to have him_ killed.

“—do you think, Teomitl-tzin?”

Itamatl. Despite himself, he liked Itamatl. Or at least, liked him more than the rest of them, which wasn’t saying much. At least the man was honest. _And hates Tizoc even more than I do._ _There’s something reassuring about that_ _._ He shifted on his haunches to get a better look at the map they’d laid out with stones in the dirt, frowning down at the symbols of their campaign. “We wait. Our war-priests are already in place; when the rest of our allies arrive, we’ll take the field.”

“I suppose we can’t expect them to defeat the enemy _for_ us. Magic is simply no match for honest strength.”

_One day, I’m going to gut you like a fish._ He closed his eyes briefly, all the acknowledgement he would give Tizoc’s words. It also spared him the sight of the man’s face; he was smirking as though he’d made a hilarious joke, and Teomitl yearned for violence.  _Acatl dragged you back into the Fifth World. I’m sure he could take you out again._ The mental image sent the faintest of tremors down his spine—Acatl covered in blood that wasn’t his own, the dust of Mictlan swirling around him, his bones gleaming white under the spell-blackened shell of his skin. His priest in battle was a sight that could have stricken a finely-tuned mix of awe and fear into a stone, never mind a man with functioning eyes.  And the idea of him smiting Tizoc down...well. That was a thought that could warm him on the coldest nights.

He shook his head lightly to clear it. Now wasn’t the time to linger  over dreams that could never come to pass as long as Acatl stayed the honest, rational man he’d taken into his heart . Tizoc was declaring their strategy meeting over, and he would have time to think (about the  _war,_ he reminded himself) on the march.

Soon enough, they were on the move again. Teomitl found himself more or less in step with his nephew Moctezuma, letting the idle chatter of his group of fellow warriors wash over him. Most were nobles, Eagle Warriors born with the advantages of their fathers’ ranks, and some part of him worried over Moctezuma associating with them; the boy was arrogant enough without help. Still, walking with them was better than being in his own head; if he focused over the thunder of marching men, he could pick up snatches of their conversations.

Maybe more than snatches. “—don’t know if you’ve  _seen_ Cempoxochitl, but—“ One of the men made hand gestures suggesting a  voluptuous figure, to general chuckles.

Ah. Sacred courtesans. Teomitl thought, briefly, about warning them about the likes of Xiloxoch, but it wasn’t his place. He kept his gaze on the road ahead, but the man bringing up Cempoxochitl had apparently started a spirited debate as each one championed their favorite—this woman had the loveliest eyes, this woman had the sweetest voice. He thought he could  _feel_ Mihmatini rolling her eyes from here. As strained as their relationship had been for a while, they were now something like friends again, and she had no patience for empty flattery.  _Tell me something real you like about me, Teomitl,_ she’d say,  _or keep your mouth shut._

Another man shook his head. “They’re lovely enough to look at, but nobody can compete with my wife back home.”

“Oh no, _now_ you’ve started it, Ozomatli.”

“Enough about your wife! You’ve been married five years; the bloom should be off the rose by now!”

“It renews itself every time I see her face. Ask your uncle, boy—he’s a married man too, he’ll tell you!” The man—Cipactli, Teomitl thought, a proven warrior with six captives under his belt—was warming to his subject now with grand gestures. “When there’s someone waiting at home for you, it gives you the strength to fight on. Doesn’t matter what she _looks_ like; it matters that she believes in you.” He paused. “Of course, great tits don’t hurt.”

“ _Ugh.”_ Moctezuma rolled his eyes theatrically, casting a sidelong glance at him. “At least you’re sensible about it, Uncle.”

 _Sensible. Right._ “Hm.” He thought of thick hair tumbling in loose waves, a body as slender as a deer’s, and forcibly steered his eyes back to their surroundings. He didn’t feel particularly sensible at the moment; if Moctezuma could hear his thoughts, he’d probably be horrified. _My wife is Guardian of the Duality, but I look at her brother and...gods, I wish he were here._ Mihmatini was strong and lovely, but he wanted dust and cool moonlight, not a riot of flowers. He spared a moment to thank Xochipilli that at least Neutemoc was a good bit further back in the column of warriors; they weren’t especially close, but the man’s fraternal intuition for his siblings’... _suitors_ was well-honed. He was sure that, for a man like him, one look would give him away.

Behind him, the debate continued.

“And where’s that leave us single men, then?”

“Why, when you come back a hero, you can have as many women as you want! They’ll line up at the gate for us!”

“They’ll line up at Teomitl-tzin’s first, I’m sure.”

He sucked in a breath  at being roped into the conversation . “I am well satisfied with  _one_ wife, thank you.” It was even true.

The men made noises that suggested a ribald comment or two was incoming, but then Moctezuma broke in with, “How could he not be? Mihmatini-tzin is  _the Guardian,”_ and that turned the topic away from women and towards magic, which while less helpful—magic would always make him think of Acatl,  of patient lessons and a steady gaze —at least meant he wouldn’t need to discipline them for potentially disrespecting his wife. He could tolerate that. 

Eventually the path through the mountains stretched down into a valley, and they all had to watch where they put their feet. He held out an arm to stop Moctezuma skidding on the gravel underfoot—gravel that might once have been smooth stones before generations of warriors had passed this way—and as he did so he caught another part of the conversations going on around him. He could barely make it out, never mind figure out who had said it, but the words still made him stiffen.

“...good thing Neutemoc’s brother is a priest, or _we’d_ stand no chance!”

For a moment, he had to squeeze his eyes shut.  _Good. They see it too. He is diligent and honest and beautiful; if he were free to court, to marry, if he were not a priest…_

Teomitl had spent a lot of time thinking about what might have happened if Acatl hadn’t become a priest. He would surely be a loyal and devoted husband, a wonderful father to the dozen or so children he clearly wanted. He deserved that. He deserved a  _hundred_ children to spoil.  _And we never would have met. Or else I might have passed him in the streets or in the markets and not known him; he would have been a stranger to me._ The idea made him shudder, even as a hot little voice whispered in his mind that a man with no vow of chastity might be...well. He might have stood a chance, then.

_(Maybe I do anyway,_ came the next desperate thought.  _Maybe—he held my hand on the temple steps, and he looked at me like—)_

“We’re here!”

The beginnings of their camp stretched out below him, and Teomitl exhaled at the sight. There was suddenly no room in his head anymore for Acatl; now was the time for preparing for war, and he would have no other goal than spreading the glory of the Empire. When he returned—and he  _would_ return, he refused to entertain the possibility of falling here— _then_ he would think about his heart again. Not before.

He marched down into the valley, one hand on his sword hilt, and felt the presence of his army behind him.

&

The poets said that war was glory. War was the flowery death, the place where eagles fell and princes turned to dust. It was where blood was spilled and the gods were honored.

It was also muddy, screaming chaos. The poets somehow never mentioned that part. Even at the fore of the fighting,  with enemies on all sides , it was difficult for him to keep his bearings; his men had looked to him for instructions at first, but it had long since descended into a melee. His feathered headdress was crushed and tattered, and he was bleeding from a dozen different places.  He ignored the pain and the fatigue, because giving in would mean his death. (If not on the field, then on the sacrifice stone—and what a sacrifice, to send the Master of the House of Darts to the Sun!) All his focus was on simply surviving the next moment, and the next. (Turn—club that man with the flat of his sword—keep moving, keep  _moving_ —dodge that axe—)

Finally,  he cleared a space around him, and there was  a moment to breathe. His side protested  as he  took a deep breath,  blinking the sweat and blood from his eyes.  He thought the blood probably wasn’t his; a head wound seemed like the sort of thing he’d remember, and his helmet seemed intact.  But then the stinging along his scalp made itself known—not serious, but just painful enough to be annoying— and he realized it wasn’t; the blow that had sheared off most of the decorative quetzal feathers had cracked it badly. 

His grip on his sword hilt tightened.  _I won’t retreat. Not now, not when we’re so close._

“Forward!”

He didn’t need to look to see whether his warriors were following him; he could feel their presence as surely as he could feel his own limbs. While every man fought for his own captives, it was still easier to take them when you had your allies close at hand. Arrows whistled overhead as he charged into the next knot of  foes, calling on Chalchiuhtlicue’s power as he ran; it rose like a tide in him, spilling over in jade light and the smell of sun-warmed water, and they quailed in instinctive fear. He couldn’t control them—that was something that required lengthy focus, and he wasn’t reckless enough to try it on a battlefield—but he didn’t need to. All he needed to do was hold them a moment, just long enough to force them to their knees.  _Ah, Acatl-_ _tzin_ _, see how well you’ve taught me!_

T he rest of the day became a bit of a blur after that. He was aware of more feinted blows, more screaming, more chanting from the assembled war-priests as blood and light warred for supremacy. At one point he turned just in time to see Moctezuma cut down a man that had been about to swing at his blind spot, and managed a grateful smile before his attention was diverted back to his own new opponent. 

And then, suddenly, there were no more to fight. Teomitl looked up from the man he’d cracked across the head—he’d live, he hadn’t been hit that hard—and realized the day’s combat was over, and they had won.  Tizoc and his regalia were unfortunately untouched, but he noted that Itamatl had acquitted himself very well, with half a dozen incapacitated or slain enemy warriors by his feet.  They would have plenty of captives to feed the gods with.

Even though there were those of his own men who would never rise again. He turned and saw Ozomatli crumpled nearby, blood still steaming where it ran from the gaping wound in his chest. He closed his eyes on a long exhale, feeling unaccountably drained. All unbidden, the words he’d heard Acatl chant a thousand times rang through his mind.  They weren’t the right ones for slain warriors—his comrades would be in the Sun’s Heaven—but they  _felt_ right.  “We leave this earth,” he whispered.  _This world of jade and flowers. The quetzal feathers, the silver. Down in the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees…_

At some point, he had fallen for Acatl with all the speed and grace of a sacrifice down the temple steps. Now, with the man’s words ringing in his head, it felt as though he’d hit every last one on the way down. It paralyzed him for the space of a heartbeat, a small eternity in which he missed Acatl like a lost limb—but then he shook himself, breathing again. _Soon. Soon, when I return, I’ll tell you. I promise._

&

“Soon” turned out to be months later, most of it spent on the march. By the time their victorious army had made it back into Tenochtitlan—strolling proudly, for all that they were footsore and in some cases still nursing injuries—Teomitl had almost forgotten his determination to speak to Acatl. He was dusty, hungry, very much wanted a steam bath, and was not looking forward in the least to another interminably long ceremony led by a Revered Speaker unstained by honest battle (not to mention a voice like a sick dog.)

And then he saw him. Acatl stood in his full regalia with the other High Priests and the Guardian (and she was very definitely the _Guardian_ in her feathered cloak, not Mihmatini); next to him, the rest of their surroundings seemed to fade away. Teomitl was no longer conscious of his aching body or tattered feather suit, nor even of the nauseating tones of Tizoc’s and Quenami’s voices. There was only Acatl, gazing at him across the distance separating them with an expression he couldn’t name.

 _He hasn’t changed,_ he thought in wonder. Four months had felt like an eternity, but Acatl was the same as ever—still lean and somber, still visibly uncomfortable under the weight of his glorious headdress and feathered cloak, with no new scars that he could see. _It must have been peaceful in Tenochtitlan while we were gone, then. Good. I hope the most interesting thing he had to go through was funeral arrangements._ He’d missed him more with every death, found the litanies for the dead running through his mind even when all was calm. It had gotten worse when they’d burned the bodies of their slain comrades, when he could almost hear Acatl’s voice in his ear.

Their eyes met. He couldn’t quite swallow a gasp. Acatl was looking at him like—like—

_(Not_ like the temple steps. He’d been soft and tender then, almost awestruck as their fingers entwined; when he’d vowed to call him by name always, Teomitl’s heart had spilled over into his veins with the rush of adoration he’d felt. No, this look only lasted a moment, but it was...deeper. Almost—gods, almost  _hungrier.)_

He had to look away, face burning, and try to ignore the heated thought of  _Maybe this isn’t a fool’s hope, after all._

There was, of course, a grand banquet to welcome the army home. He didn’t dare leave early; Tizoc was volatile even while celebrating the victory his army had won for him, and it would be easier later if he played the part of the dutiful general now.

He _hated_ banquets. No amount of delicious food could make up for the company. He was seated at the same mat as his least favorite members of the war council; Acatl, sitting in between Quenami and Acamapichtli and visibly trying to pretend both of them didn’t exist, looked as miserable as he felt. (Devastating in his regalia, yes, but miserable; admittedly, it was probably _because_ of the regalia.) He was barely even picking at the really quite excellent roasted duck in front of him, which was just wrong; Acatl loved a good meal, one of the few pleasures he allowed himself, and a palace banquet ought to have been a joy instead of a trial. It was enough to make him want to stage a kidnapping—to spirit him away to a street vendor, or to his own courtyard, or to anywhere surrounded by family.

Teomitl found himself wistfully remembering meals at Neutemoc’s house, with Necalli excitedly badgering him for all the stories of his latest campaign while Mazatl climbed all over her uncles’ laps (he would absolutely never forget the first time she’d called _him_ Uncle; it was engraved on his heart right next to each of Acatl’s hard-won smiles) and Ollin—who was starting to walk now and had to be carefully watched—toddled carefully around the table. There were still manners, of course, but there was also laughter and teasing. No hidden knives in the dark. Acatl and Mihmatini loved their family and were loved in return. _When I am Revered Speaker,_ he decided, _I will see about banning the most useless noblemen from my victory banquets. I can start with Moctezuma’s insufferable friends and work my way up._

At least Mihmatini was next to him, radiant in jade and feathers with her face painted in intricate blue designs. This close, the magical connection between them felt a little like sitting comfortably next to a friendly brazier. When she nudged him with a companionable murmur of, “Glad you’re back,” he found himself smiling.

“So am I.”

They’d somehow reached an accord after that utter disaster in the courtyard. Of course she had been furious, but then—desperate, holding out his heart in his hands—he had told her the truth. That even though Tizoc was incompetent and worthless and paranoid, had insulted his loved ones in a thousand different ways, he could have grit his teeth and borne that. It would have killed him, but he could have borne that. But then he and his toady had tried to have Acatl executed, and from then on there had been no other path Teomitl could take. After that, she had been...well…

Well, she’d still been furious, but it hadn’t been nearly as vitriolic. When she’d looked at him for a long, singularly uncomfortable moment, nodded, and said that regicide was in that case an  _entirely_ appropriate response even if his timing drastically needed work, he’d known it would all work itself out. 

“We missed you, you know.”

He knew who she was including in that  _we,_ and he busied himself with finishing his cup of maguey sap before responding. (Unfortunately, his wife had turned out to be highly perceptive and capable of drawing accurate conclusions from his stated motivations. Though he’d been prepared to take it to his grave, she hadn’t given him the chance.) “The coronation war took longer than this.”

She nodded. “Still. Acatl and I were...concerned.” Her eyes flickered towards Tizoc’s gilded screen. “A lot can happen in war.”

He’d spent a lot of time pondering that essential fact, mostly while trying to talk himself out of being the thing that happened to Tizoc. He’d promised Acatl he would wait for his reign to be stable, after all, and he would not disappoint him again.  Now, all that simmering fury felt much farther away. “None of it happened to me, and you saw how many captives we took.”

“Mm.” She took a delicate bite of turkey. “I also saw the way you looked during the welcome speeches. Life is short, Teomitl. It’s better to take the flowers and the jade where you can.” 

Her gaze slid pointedly towards Acatl’s seat, and Teomitl took a slow breath. Suddenly the perfumes and other rich scents of the banquets were almost too much, and he found himself craving the dry, stretched emptiness of Mictlan. It would help him focus. Because Mihmatini was right, she’d always been right—life was short, and death could come at any time, and he’d spent four months thinking of the things he wanted to do before it caught him. His reign had to wait, but in the meantime...

He remembered the way Acatl had looked at him. 

“I will.”

&

It still took a frankly disgustingly long time for him to disengage himself from the victory banquet. There were more courses, and more speeches, and then Itamatl and a few other councilmembers wanted to talk to him, and  _then_ he almost got into a fight with a nobleman who’d made a comment about one of the sisters he actually  _liked…_

By the time he changed out of his finery, washed the paint from his face, and escaped the palace, the full moon had risen high in the sky. It would provide enough light for him to make it to Acatl’s house; if he knew his former teacher as well as he thought he did, the man would still be awake. (He thought briefly of checking the temple instead, and dismissed it; after several hours of dealing with his fellow High Priests, surely even  _Acatl_ would want to relax.)

He was in luck. Acatl was at home; when he laid a hand on the entrance-curtain and called his name, there was only a moment’s pause before the voice he’d longed for responded. “Teomitl?”

He wished he’d brought food.  _Good_ food, the kind that meant Acatl could relax while eating. There was a particular soft, satisfied look the man got when he was enjoying his meal, and he wanted to see it properly. But he’d only brought himself, and it would have to do. He was also starting to wish he’d prepared some kind of speech. “...I thought...it’s been a while, Acatl-tzin.”

A noise from inside, like an indrawn breath. “It has. Come in?”

He went in. Acatl had to have just been washing his face in the basin; a few wet strands of hair coiled loosely around his face, and the sight briefly stole the air from his lungs. “I…”  _I want to comb your hair out for you. I want to wrap my arms around you and never let you go. Leaving you felt like losing my own right hand._

“I missed you.”

It was inadequate. He knew it was inadequate even as he said it; _missing_ simply couldn’t describe the ache under his breastbone, the comforting recollection of how Acatl’s voice sounded when he chanted his hymns for the dead. It made him sound juvenile. Weak. Hardly the sort of man who deserved the regard—maybe even the love—of the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. (He pushed back the thought that whispered that maybe he wanted to be weak for Acatl, that maybe he’d enjoy being taken care of for once. It wouldn’t help him now.)

Acatl flushed anyway, with a soft smile that went straight to his heart. “I missed you, too. I prayed for your success, you know.”

He couldn’t stop the teasing smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. He was on more familiar ground here. (Besides, if Acatl kept blushing at him he was _definitely_ going to do something stupid, like forgo using words entirely in favor of kissing him breathless.) “Were you worried, Acatl? You spend too much time doing that, it’s bad for your health.”

Acatl huffed at that just as he knew he would, all offended dignity. “You risk death on the battlefield to bring glory to the Empire. I think I’m entitled to worry! Especially...well.” He made a face that suggested without words that he wouldn’t have trusted Tizoc to lead his way across the plaza on a quiet day, never mind direct an army in the field.

Teomitl thrilled at the sight—at the reminder, after everything, that Acatl not only believed he’d be a better ruler but was actually comfortable _expressing_ it. It had taken him long enough. _When I am Revered Speaker, I will honor you above all other men, your temple above all other temples. Let Quenami choke on that._ Feeling bold, he stepped forward. Acatl’s house wasn’t large; a few more steps, and they could touch. He didn’t dare close the distance yet. It was enough to be here, gazing into Acatl’s dark eyes. “...Thank you.” _Thank you for worrying. For caring. For believing in me. For praying to gods who are not your patron to keep me safe._ _I love you so much._

“—Teomitl, I—“

“I wanted to tell you—“

They’d spoken at the same time; Acatl mutely gestured for him to go ahead. He felt his face burn and had to drop his gaze to the floor. _If I lose my nerve now...no. He should hear this._ He took a step forward, and another. Just within arm’s reach, but far enough that Acatl could step back if his words or presence proved unwelcome. “I thought of you while I was on campaign. Every day.” _Every night, too. Maybe especially then. My mat was so lonely._ “Whenever I saw death, I thought of you and your hymns. I—“ Acatl’s loose fingers twitched; before he could think better of it, he reached out and wrapped his hand around them. They were still a little cool and damp from the water, but that didn’t matter. He could feel Acatl’s pulse all the way in his fingertips, a racing heartbeat carrying warm blood to his extremities, and the unfamiliar feeling of the scars under his palm made him itch to learn the shape of them all.

He had to take another breath before he could continue. “I missed you _so much.”_

“ _...Teomitl.”_ He sounded awestruck. Teomitl was afraid to lift his head. If he did, he’d have to see the expression on Acatl’s face, and he honestly wasn’t sure he could handle that right now. But Acatl wasn’t pulling his hand away, and it gave him the strength to keep talking.

“While we were on the march, one of the warriors said that having someone believing in you back home, someone you love...that’s what gives you the strength to keep fighting.” He was sure Cipactli was warm in his beloved Malinalli’s arms right now; he prayed wordlessly that he’d be so lucky. His heart felt like it had lodged itself in his throat. “I—that’s not just Mihmatini, for me.”

He was pretty sure Acatl wasn’t breathing. He was finding it a bit difficult himself. The hand in his had gone slack, trembling a little in his grip.

Even when Acatl found his voice, there was a barely-suppressed tremor running through it. “...What...what are you saying?”

“I’m.” He swallowed hard. “I’m saying, Acatl…” The next breath felt like it was burning his lungs, fire dancing across his skin. _I have to tell him. Even if he rejects me—even if he rejects me, I have to tell him the truth. No more hiding._

“I love you. As one man loves another.”

Acatl was silent. Horribly, agonizingly silent. Teomitl felt his heart crack in half as their joined hands separated, fingers slipping out of his as though they’d never been there in the first place. He couldn’t move. He didn’t think he’d ever move again. Even his face felt frozen—a good thing, in this case, because the Duality knew he was afraid of what his own expression might betray.

Finally, some noise betrayed Acatl’s reaction—a slightly strangled huff, followed by an incredulous, _“Really?!”_

He made himself look up, facing Acatl’s wide eyes head-on. He looked...stunned, Teomitl registered. Almost but not quite horrified, as though the idea that Teomitl could be in love with him had never even crossed his mind. _Acatl, gods, how could anyone not love you? How is this a surprise?_ But apparently it was, and if he hadn’t been paralyzed by shame and grief he might have screamed. “I—” He didn’t know what he was going to say. An apology, maybe.

And then Acatl stepped forward, set his hands on Teomitl’s waist, and pulled him into his arms. He had a moment to think _Oh,_ and then Acatl’s mouth was on his and he wasn’t thinking anything at all.

(Later—much later, when they were flushed and breathless and he was finally fulfilling his dream of running his fingers through the man’s hair—Acatl’s murmur of “Welcome home,” made him melt all over again.)

**Author's Note:**

> historical fun fact: moctezuma II was, in fact, known for being Very Snooty as a revered speaker, reversing a lot of his uncle ahuitzotl's political appointments since they uplifted warriors instead of noblemen. ahuitzotl, meanwhile, was known for being very generous and makin' it rain on the people he liked. in the universe of my fics, since i simply Do Not Vibe with teo's death in 1502 and therefore he gets to reign another 20 years, this ABSOLUTELY drives moctezuma up the wall on the regular.
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ship_to_hell/) or [tumblr!](https://notapaladin.tumblr.com/)


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